


the song of the pilgrim

by mountaindews



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Fantasy AU, M/M, the ballad sucks but i can't poetry ahah kill me, they're all trainees in an academy to become dragon knights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountaindews/pseuds/mountaindews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>« What are you going to sing for us? »<br/>Someone claps their hands. They’re probably drunk, and glasses are beaten on the wooden tables, spilling beer and cheap wine, heavy laughs fill the small and smoked room; but the jester smiles, lightly touching the chords of his lute. His blonde hair gleams in the light of the torches.<br/>« A song of devotion, and loss. »</p><p>*</p><p>Sing me the song of a devotion’s that’s right,<br/>sing me the song of the lover of the knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the song of the pilgrim

_the song of the pilgrim _

 

_« What are you going to sing for us? »_  
_Someone claps their hands. They’re probably drunk, and glasses are beaten on the wooden tables, spilling beer and cheap wine, heavy laughs fill the small and smoked room; but the jester smiles, lightly touching the chords of his lute. His blonde hair gleams in the light of the torches._  
_« A song of devotion, and loss. »_

 

＊

 

 _A pilgrim was he, gleeful and wide eyed_  
_life echoed soundingly in him._  
_He followed the steps of the one before,_  
_his life a selfless gift to saints and God._  
_A pilgrim through life, tired before starting_  
_a smile on his lips as he kept walking._  
  
＊

 

« Hand me the sword. I’ll show you how it’s done. »  
Green eyes look up to meet blue ones, a soft, hesitant emerald gaze meeting a way too serious azure one. Small hands loosen their grip around the wooden sword, handing it to a stronger grip, moving it around with confident moves; fast, elegant thrusts that make almost no noise, almost as if he was dancing.  
Makoto claps his hands, and Izumi stops, laughing gently in the back of his throat and bowing to his audience, letting the hand with the wooden weapon fall on his side as he comes back closer.  
« Did you see? It’s one step, one lunge. Move your arms like this – » he slashes the air again, and Makoto nods vehemently, « your arms and legs have to move in synch, it’s the fastest way to injure your enemies. So you won’t have to engage in duels, and you’ll be safe. »  
« Why are you so worried about me fighting duels, big brother? » it sounds like the naive question of a child, but Makoto is no child, really, and Izumi knows, « Is it because you don’t believe I could win? »  
The older boy smiles again, gently, softly, as he ruffles his hair with a gloved hand.  
A young trainee and a soon to be soldier, about to be the sent to the frontline. An average boy and one of the most promising future knights, hidden in the garden during their free afternoon, practicing. Makoto still doesn’t understand why it’s him, and not somebody else – somebody more talented, more beautiful. But Izumi sees something in him, and he has clearly no intention of letting that spark be suffocated by a training too generic and harsh, something Makoto is immensely glad about.  
« Of course not, Yuu-kun » that benevolent smile is still on his lips as he kneels to his height, handing him the sword « of course I believe you’ll win. I just don’t want you to be injured in battle, that’ll be terrible! The battlefield has no mercy of the injured and the weak, and since you’re not weak at all, let’s work on keeping you safe and unharmed. »  
They’re young, and war still sounds so distant for Makoto, something Izumi (with his perfect, flawless moves) can keep away with a sway of his sword. As white lights pours from the green leaves of the trees, moving gently in the breeze, he and Izumi duel once again, wood hitting wood with loud thumping noises, laughs making the air vibrate.

 

＊

 

 _Sing in your highest tune_  
_songs of a young love as it blooms_  
_but love’s as frail as a dandelion stem_  
_sing as it’s born, mourn as it breaks._  
_The icons of the saints that give no warmth_  
_were the only companions on his path._

 

＊ _  
_

The armory smells like iron and leather, still better than his tent near the infirmary – everything's better than that, if not for his helplessly shaking knees, and the voice of their trainer. Everything would be better if they weren't in the armory to get ready for the battle, if Young Prince Himemiya wasn't crying and screaming he doesn't want to die; if only they weren't trying armors on, slashing the air with the swords the blacksmith hands them to see if they weren't too heavy.

They're going to kill for their lives with those swords, after all. It would be a shame if one of them died for having picked the wrong one.

Makoto's hands and knees feel weak like melting snow. Finding an armor wasn't too hard; it's just a little too tight on the chest, but he can manage. It’s the smell of blood, the sweet, disgusting scent of rotten flesh the warm wind blows through their encampment that make him so nauseous. He hasn’t seen the battlefield yet, and it scares him, it scares him so much that he can’t help but shiver, making the swords clumsily fall on the floor as their lieutenant glares at him and some boys, as scared as him (probably more scared), point at him whispering.  
He shouldn’t be afraid. He shouldn’t. He has somebody protecting him from above, he knows, but –  
_The battlefield has no mercy of the injured and the weak.  
_ The top of the armor holds his chest in an iron grip, making him struggle to breathe, head light and body way too heavy to stand up.

The battlefield has no mercy of the injured and the weak, and he’s way too weak to be pitiful.  
Izumi’s playful words echo in his head, _a hit there, when they’re too scared to react._ He can feel his ghostly fingers tapping on his knee, the smell of wet grass in his nostrils, the sunshine bathing them in crystal light, _then one here, just under the helmet._ Fingertips on his neck, tracing down the veins. Makoto feels his breath hitch, and he can’t quite tell if it’s the memory or his current, spiteful self; he won’t survive, he’s sure, dead sure he won’t survive this battle. Because everybody is sure he’s a wonderful fighter, he’s been praised and treated like a prince for his sword skills, pressured into going to the front earlier than the others, and now he’s stuck in an armor too tight and swords too heavy, hilts too big for his still small hands.  
Makoto can’t breathe.  
He won’t be alive tomorrow if he remains here.

 

＊

 

 _Betrayed was he, broken and lost_  
_he could pray no saint to spare his soul._  
_The traitorous icons he cherished_  
_stabbed his back and left him wounded._  
_As he cried for help from the gods above_  
_foreigns deities took pity on his soul._

 

＊

 

« Why are you interested in making a traitor your squire? »  
The red haired boy smiles, reaching out between the heavy iron bars. Makoto almost leans in, captivated by that warm smile – so warm in the cold cell, it makes some of the ice in his chest melt into tears, choking them back by blinking and swallowing bitter lumps in his throat.  
« You’re not a traitor, Ukki! » Subaru really has the brightest smile, it glows in the faint ray of sunshine filtering under the iron door, a promise of freedom and warmth, « you just did what you thought was best for you. You didn’t run away from the camp, after all. »  
His hand is still stretched over, behind the bars, and if only it wasn’t for the chains, he would have taken it. His arms make a noise as he moves, slowly, heavily, trying to focus on that heath and warmth Subaru gives off, like a high, burning fire.  
He’s a renegade, a deserter. Nobody would have ever bothered to sneak in his cell to make him his squire and free him, save him from a trial he has almost no chance of winning; nobody, except for Subaru.  
« So come with me, Ukki. »  
He’s cold, wounded, and all his body feels stiff. But he can still feel the smile lingering on his bruised lips.  
« Yes, my lord. »

 

＊

 

 _For having adored_ _an_ _illusionary god_  
the betrayed pilgrim must pay with his soul.  
For having switched loyalty in the middle of his path,  
_the lone pilgrim must pay for his wrath._  
_Egoistic needs entwine with lost loves,_  
_ego and memories come back as ghosts._  
_Even the rays of hope that shine so bright_  
_can do nothing in the most dark night._

 

＊

 

« Are you sure you’ll be fine, Ukki? »  
The wind howls around his helmet, dragons roar from the rear. The archers stretch their bows, and though he still smells dust and blood, Makoto is not afraid.  
There’s something nostalgic in being on the battlefield, near the dragon knights, handing a sword to one of them. His stomach twists, but he doesn’t say anything; instead, he just smiles, patting Subaru on the shoulder.  
« I was born fine, Akeoshi-kun. And I was born ready, unlike someone – hey! » a little whine, as someone pinches his side.  
« We’re just worried, Makoto » bright red hair pop up from beneath a heavy black helmet, a warm, comforting smile confirming the otherwise unnamed knight as Mao « you sure you’ll be fine in the front? »  
« If I was sent to the front, and not the rear, it means they trust me! » the cheeky grin on his face barely matches the lump in his throat, but he swallows, it’s fine. « It’s good they do, and I can’t disappoint them! Are you going to be okay? The dragons are always the most targeted, you know. »  
« All dragon knights were called for this battle! » Subaru pats Altair on his scaled leg, and the dragon roars approvingly, digging his claws in the sandy ground « If they’re aiming at somebody, they’re not going to go for the young knights, but for the big, famous ones! » he claps his hands once, a fierce, joking grin on his face, « Sari doesn’t have to worry in the slightest. »  
« Who doesn’t have to worry now?! » Mao roars, « Subaru! »  
Makoto laughs, high, and for once, the fear of dying is pushed back in the rears of his mind, even when the lieutenant shouts the signal for the attack.

 

＊

 

_Selfishness gets payed with blood  
when you swear your life to a god._

 

＊

 

Izumi smiles weakly, his fingertips running across Makoto's lips, leaving a faint path of coppery tasting blood as he touches, feather-light. Makoto just stares at him, eyes big, pleading – asking him to not leave him alone when his tongue can't, tied in too many bitter and painful knots to let him speak.

The battle is still roaming on the other side of the hill; the cries of the dragons, the clang of the swords, it all feels distant, like in a dream. Izumi's breath dying out – that's too close, Makoto is too close to him, but he doesn't care. Their helms slipped off somewhere during the duel, their faces are dusted and bloodied, their fingers tightly entwined with each other's; Makoto refuses to let him go. Not with that smile. Not after he saved his life, and he can't do anything to save his.

« My Yuu-kun » a whisper, slipping past chapped crimson lips and landing heavily on Makoto's skin, making him shiver to the bone « don't cry. You used to cry so much when you entered the academy… but you're an adult now, are you? It's such a shame to see you cry… »

He coughs, letting out a whine of pain with the blood that adds to the red on his lips. And his eyes — his eyes are so soft, so loving, his expression so overwhelmingly gentle he looks like he's seen the flawless face of a goddess. Makoto is no god, his skin is littered with bruises and cuts, smeared with blood and sweat that mingled with dust in an ugly red and grey layer. A cut splits his chapped lower lip in two, and he knows, he knows for sure he's crying; though he can't feel the tears through his daze, his eyes still burn.

« Izumi-san » the words just won't come. He can't accept it. He can't bring himself to say goodbye to the person that protected him through all his years as a trainee, to the dragon knight he looked up so much, someone that loved him, no matter what. It makes him sick. « Izumi… »

The high keen of a dragon he recognizes shakes him; Altair, Subaru's dragon, is coming closer. They're probably looking for them. But they're on the other side of the battlefield, and with the archers still fully armed, Altair will take a while. Makoto takes a breath, and looks down at Izumi's wound.

It's bad. The poisoned sword cut deep, breaking his armor; dark blood is still seeping out in pulses, and Izumi's barely breathing, skin paper-like, deadly white, glistening with cold sweat. His eyes are still wide open, and he's still smiling, a hand touching Makoto's neck so lightly, reverently, like a pilgrim and a saint.

« Makoto » Izumi blinks, pupils somehow unfocused now « you've grown so much… »

The hiccups that break from his chest and throat make his whole body hurt; it's like a fever, a plague, the most disgusting infection. Izumi caresses his hair, his cheeks, smiling so fondly it looks almost out of place, a fake expression to deceive him; almost, because he's seen him smile like that in the past, and he's crying, head pressed against Izumi's shoulder and weak murmurs whispered in his ear.

« Dying knowing — » Izumi's breath hitches, his hand falls on Makoto's back, and Makoto sobs harder – he's dying in his arms, and he's watching, helpless, as he falls apart beneath him, giving away his life for having saved his.

_(That hit – it was for him, for him and him only. That poison, the whole duel – how is he going to live, knowing someone threw away his life to save him? And for a stupid duel with someone he had no chance against?_

_The corpse of the dragon they're leaning against still feels disgustingly warm, a warmth that creeps under his skin, bites his bones, and the beheaded body of the enemy knight, partially hidden under a wing, doesn't hide his foolish miscalculation.)_

« Dying knowing you love me… is the most beautiful death I could have aspired to… »

« I never hated you » he sobs in his armor, « I couldn't hate you. »

He feels like a child, clinging to Izumi, crying, shaking. The metallic smell of blood feels disgusting under his tongue, but he still doesn't move, holding him a little tighter when he feels him coughing again.

« Makoto… could you do me a favor? »

« What's that? »

Izumi's voice doesn't tremble as he speaks.

« Tell those knights I'm sorry for leaving them. But I don't regret it. As much as it hurts, leaving them alone. And knowing you never hated me, you loved me… it's a repayment I'm more than happy to accept. »

His breath has become raspy, erratic, his eyes unfocused and glassy, and there's no warmth when he weakly touches his arm, skin almost frozen beneath the thin leather glove.

Maybe it's pity for a dying man, maybe it's will to grant him one last wish. Maybe it's something he should have done weeks and years before. Maybe it's a mistake, but Makoto leans in.

« No. »

There's a finger pressed on his lips before they can touch anything, and he's left with a stronger taste of blood under his tongue, Izumi's eyes closer and bigger than ever now that they're breathing the same air.

« Don't » the knight repeats, now panting every word out, « don't. I can't allow you to waste a kiss with a corpse. »

＊

 

_Pilgrims were they, split apart by the gods_  
_their blasphemous belief of being bigger than them_  
_angered deities, as they looked for each other again._  
_None’s bigger, nothing’s more powerful than a god_  
_foolishly they believed that so was their love._  
_Fate kept them apart, fate let them meet_  
_on a dying’s bed of broken promises and defeat._  
_Fate made the lone pilgrim never forget,_  
_made him taste the bitterness of his own regret._  
_Sing me the song of a devotion’s that’s right,_  
_sing me the song of the lover of the knight._

＊

 

Izumi tastes like paradise, and weeps.  
He sighs on his lips, coaxing them open with a sob so desperate he can feel his throat shake.

 

＊

 

_Pilgrims they were, now pilgrims no more.  
_

＊

 _« What kind of ballad was it? »_  
« The story of people who couldn’t escape their destiny. »  


＊

 

« Don’t leave me » he mutters, against cold skin, against lifeless lips, « please. Not now. »  
There’s no response. Just the howling of the wind, and cold, cruel sunshine, dripping on skin white like moonlight, eyelids that won’t open again.

 

＊

_Until the circle of fate will let them meet again,  
gods exist only if you believe in them. _

**Author's Note:**

> .... oof, it's done! i'm sorry for the confusion of the plot, you can ask me in the comments if you don't quite get something ghfruie  
>  it took me a whole week but! here it goes! feedback is /greatly/ appreciated for this ;w;/  
> hmu on twitter if you're interested in more! stuff! @natsumaos


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